


Rompez les Chaînes

by Queerapika



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, M/M, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-23 10:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3764293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queerapika/pseuds/Queerapika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurapika is a former ballet wunderkind who turned his back to the stage to become a tutor; Leorio is a heartbroken, anything but graceful newbie who is in desperate need of some classical tutoring. When their paths cross, they approach each other hesitantly, bound to collide, bound to be changed profoundly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Entrée

_The sky looks pissed_  
_The wind talks back_  
_My bones are shifting in my skin_  
_And you, my love, are gone_

Ingrid Michaelson, “The Chain”

* * *

Before a small, run-down theater stood a man and a woman, sharing a silence not quite comfortable. They were in many ways opposites: his tall and dark angles clashed with the bright pink of her hair and the soft curves of her hips, thighs and chest. He knew her well enough to tell that her shape was the only soft part of her; cold determination glowed in her green eyes and the set of her lips was twisted into a comma by the unlit cigarette tucked in the corner of her mouth.

She patted the pockets of her gray coat and when she found them empty, asked if he had fire.

“You should stop that, you know,” he remarked, but snapped open his lighter anyway, watching how she bend over the flame. “'S not good for you.”

The tobacco turned into embers, and smoke flowed out of her nostrils, spinning up as she exhaled, curling around her sweat-damp hair. “Shut up, you hypocrite. I deserve that cigarette after the little stunt you pulled off.”

“I know,” he said, and then: “I'm sorry.” His head hung low. It usually did, because the young man's towering height made him feel vulnerable and exposed and he used every opportunity to make himself smaller.

She side-eyed him and blew a wisp of smoke in his direction, taunting, teasing. “What the fuck was wrong with you in there?”

“Did you see how they stared at us? Like... like we were witches in a trial. Like they were just waiting to execute us.”

The woman sneered and tilted her head. This had not been the first time they auditioned but with every jury they met, he seemed to lose more of his self-confidence. “You're such a baby, Leorio,” she said fondly and handed him the cigarette to let him know that his faux pas was forgiven. He took a deep drag. His eyelids fluttered with delight as the nicotine spread through his veins and smoothed his ruffled-up thoughts. When he flicked away some ash, the pink lip stick mark on the filter caught his eye.

Baise. That was French for 'kiss', if he was not mistaken. It also meant 'fucking', which she loved to laugh in people's face because that was just the sort of person she was.

Leorio gave her the cigarette back. His dark eyes searched the sky, which was just as gloomy as he felt. “Maybe you should get a new partner. Then your chances at the auditions would be higher.”

“And where am I supposed to find a man that can lift and is even half-tolerable? Don't be a fool, Leorio. I expect you to turn up for practice tomorrow, you hear me? No excuses. If you don't, I'll rip out your throat.” Baise drew her coat closer to her frame.

“Understood. You wanna go? Need a ride home?”

“Thanks, kitten, but I'll walk. Last thing I need now is the gross fast food smell of that trash can you're driving.”

His ears turned pink. “I do air it out. It just doesn't help.”

Baise hummed skeptically and stood up on her tiptoes, pressing a kiss on his cheek. She made a point out of being as unaffectionate as possible, but she knew how much he hated lipstick stains on his face. As he rubbed his cheek with a look of utter betrayal, Baise laughed raucously and bid him goodbye.

Leorio watched her skip away from him until she turned blurry.

He checked his watch.

He rummaged in his bag until he found the leather case that held his glasses and put them on. The world acquired a sharper edge that made his head spin for a moment.

He checked his watch again, to find that only one minute had passed. Time was an odd thing: he never knew what to do with the minutes he could spare; there were not enough of them to make the trip to the university worth it, but he couldn't bear to spend them in the silence of his apartment where he would be trapped with the abundance of space and the memories that slept in every shadow.

“Excuse me?” A breeze carried a voice from the shadows of the theater entrance to him, sweet as a daisy, and a woman soon follow shut. “Leorio Paladiknight, is it?”

“The very same. You are-?” He couldn't recall seeing her before, but he might have overlooked her. She was such a tiny person.

“My name is Melody. I watched your performance from the audience. Do you have time for some well-meant advice?”

“Actually, I was just about to go home,” Leorio lied, torn between his curiosity and his embarrassment: his mind decided that it was the perfect moment to remember all the little slip-ups he had offered the audience.

“I'll invite you for coffee.”

He couldn't say no to that, though.

 

Melody appeared to be a tea person; she ordered the unholy trinity of herbal mixtures – a blend of fennel, aniseed and kummel. Leorio tried his best not to scoff and wrinkle his nose in disgust but he had never been a good actor.

Melody paid this no heed. She asked: “Is is alright if I call you by your first name?” and Leorio was quick to approve. He found it odd to be addressed by his family name, it made him feel like an old person and that had been a joke among his friends for quite some time because they insisted he acted like a man in his thirties.

There was no one to tease him about it now.

“How did you start dancing ballet?”

Leorio flinched and scanned the cafe, half-expecting to find conversations around them to end in silence and for judgmental eyes to fix on him. But the other guests were still perfectly wrapped up in their own affairs. None of them had a face he recognized from law school either. Seemed like he was safe from ridicule - for now.

“I had friends who were in a balled group. They called themselves _the spinning cogs_ – but I doubt you heard of them, they, _we_ had more of an internet presence, youtube vids and all.” He gave her a shy smile and spooned too much sugar in his coffee. “My best friend asked me if I wanted to join, because their prima ballerina ran off and his older sister Baise – my partner, I mean, my dancing partner, you saw her today – she wanted to take the part but she's much heavier and they needed someone strong enough to lift her. So they taught me.”

“And you had no previous experiences with ballet? How unusual.”

Out of context, it would seem unusual. Out of context, the small things didn't count, like tipsily spinning your boyfriend in a crammed living room or all the clumsy attempts to imitate even the most basic steps, hoping it would somehow make him a part of the world that Pietro was so in love with. He'd been jealous of the ballet group that consumed most of Pietro's time and had started sticking around during practices, he conditioned himself to be able to study even in noisy surroundings just so that they could be side by side while they chased their individual dreams. Pietro had known Leorio would be able to lift Baise because he knew that Leorio could lift _him_ – and so he wanted to make it work.

This was the beginning, no, the middle of the story Leorio held inside himself and he would have spilled it all, had it not been safely bottled up in the conviction that no one wanted to hear. Instead, he mentioned the safe parts: how the group had had no financial means and how they therefore hadn't been able to _hire_ a dancer; how he was only supposed to be a temporary solution but they never found someone to replace him, who would join them for free.

“I see,” Melody said warily – something of the old pain must have translated to his features. “What happened to the group then?”

 _'My boyfriend's brain had a really nasty hiccup,'_ Leorio thought while at the same time his mouth presented a well-rehearsed automatic response. “We lost more members until it didn't work out anymore, so the group split up half a year ago. Baise and I have been frequenting auditions ever since.”

Melody blew over her tea, seemingly deep in thought. She worried the handle of the cup with her thumb when she spoke up: “I like to see people dance. I'm a musician; I'm usually stuck in the pit with the orchestra and can't watch the performances, so being in the audience is a nice change... but I like watching auditions most. You get to watch people as individuals and at their most creative. Everybody tries so hard to gather attention, to... to shine and surpass the other applicants, even surpass themselves. They are so vibrant with hope and expectations it's like one can hear their hearts race, even from afar.” She turned a little pink around the nose. As if she had just revealed some intimate information. Maybe she had.

“I understand,” said Leorio who understood nothing but who didn't want to make her feel like she was an oddball.

“However,” Melody started again and folded her hands neatly in her lap, “auditions are not for everyone.”

His heart sank.

“I have to be honest, this is not the first time I happened to see you audition and it's hard not to notice you because your performance sticks out, although it took me some time to figure out why. Your lack of a classical schooling shows and although I find it admirable that you are trying to... to pursue a professional route anyway, I'm afraid that no jury will give you credit for that – they will only see the extra hours of work they'll have to invest in you.”

“So you invited me for coffee only to discourage me. Wow. Just _wow_.” Leorio knew he sounded childish and bitter but what was he supposed to do? He didn't care about the money or the fame; he danced because he wanted to. Because he missed being part of something. Because dancing was the only thing in his life that remained of Pietro.

Leorio's knuckles turned white as he held onto his cup. The porcelain was too hot, hurting his fingertips and palm, but it was a good heat, a grounding heat. Someone would take him. If he was stubborn enough and kept training hard. Giving up was not an option.

“I'm sorry, that wasn't my intention at all.”

“What was your intention, then?”, he snapped and immediately felt bad for it. It wasn't Melody's fault that he lacked the proper background.

“To show you an alternative. Sometimes, dancers get hired straight from their schools if their teachers have the proper connections. Often they don't, but even then a recommendation from a respected tutor could help you advance and as things are you could really use some tutoring.”

“That's all right and fair, but you're missing something. Schools cost money. I don't have any to spare. So, thanks for the advice, but I'm afraid I can't follow it.”

Surprisingly, she started to smile. Out of the depths of her purse, Melody pulled a business card and slipped it into his hand. “I'd like you to fill out an application and send it to me, including video material of your performances. I'd want to show them to a friend of mine. He's working at a ballet school and if I explain your situation, then maybe... of course I can't promise anything. But I have a good feeling he might be interested.”

Leorio squinted at the card. Melody had somehow forgotten to mention that she was not any musician – she was a flutist of the National Symphonic Orchestra. How she became friends with a ballet tutor in the first place was beyond him, but Leorio figured that he had nothing to lose. He would still audition with Baise as soon as an opportunity arose.

“What kind of performances do I have to send in?”

“Ah. I'm not sure, but if you give me your contact information, I'd let you know all the necessary details as soon as possible.”

Leorio borrowed a pen from her and wrote his e-mail and phone number in big, shaky letters on a napkin. (When he tried, his handwriting looked a bit like a child's that had just learned cursive, but the alternative was the chicken scratch he used for school notes and he wanted her to be actually able to contact him.) He slid the pen and the napkin over the table and watched Melody store away both.

“Thanks,” Leorio said, and the word came out small and awkward like a newly hatched chick.

“Don't thank me yet. Or better, thank me by promising to give your best if you get accepted.”

“I will.”

* * *

Biscuit “Bisky” Krueger liked three things: lolita fashion, the pleasant view of a well-muscled male body in graceful movement and people who were willing to work hard to achieve something. However, as for the last point there were reasonable limits to be set and enjoyments to be had in between working times and she was anything but pleased to find her young colleague cooped up in their office, hours after the last class had been dismissed.

He appeared to be watching a performance and took notes occasionally and when she sighed dramatically, he didn't even bother looking over his shoulder.

“Not yet,” he said, and took a moment to stretch his back and arms. “I'm not quite done.”

“Well _I_ am. And you have a home, Kurapika, I suggest you go there from time to time.”

Kurapika laughed, low and a little mocking as if to say _'and which home are you referring to?'_ but Bisky decided not to reprimand him for the attitude. This time. “Are you doing research?”

“No. Melody asked me to look at something for her. Care to give me a second opinion?”

He mussed through his hair and looked at her with wide eyes, like a cat. Bisky gave in, like she always did because if there was one thing this kid did not need, it was someone who was strict with him. No one was more critical with Kurapika than himself. But she had an image to maintain and so her face remained doubtful as she stepped closer and leaned on the backrest of his chair. “If it means I can go home sooner,” she complained, perhaps a smidge too gruff to be taken seriously.

“Yeah, it's not like you live right over the studio.”

“You watch that sass, young man. And what the hell is this? A dancing stork?”

Kurapika made a low sound, something between a cough and a chuckle. “I have watched this video at least a dozen times and I still can't tell if the lack of grace is on purpose or if the choreography was chosen to distract from his weaknesses. Either way, Melody is asking if we could grant him a scholarship.”

“She knows we don't do scholarships, right?”

The pause before he spoke up told her everything she needed to know; in the end, the potential of the boy on the screen didn't matter. Kurapika would try to find a way for this to happen, because Kurapika hated to turn down Melody. Luckily for Melody, she didn't make use of that often or else Bisky would have had a word with that woman.

“I don't want to say no just out of principle and it's not like my class is crammed even if Neon was more attentive.”

“Tell me more about stork boy, then.”

“He's a twenty-three year old law school student, 193 cm tall, has never attended a ballet school but used to dance in a group. Don't. Don't give me that look, Bisky.”

“Law school?”, Bisky asked. And she had every right to give him the look because, damn, if the kid wanted to be a lawyer he could reapply at this school when he was able to pay for it, like _everyone_ else.

“According to his letter of interest, he intends to pursue dancing as a career too.”

It wasn't unusual for dancers to pick up a day-to-day job in order to be able to pay their bills, but a _lawyer,_ really? Kurapika noticed her mistrust and was quick to add: “He also has experience as a stage-hand and offered his help whenever needed. Considering that his CV also lists a current employment as a waiter, I doubt he'll be taking this lightly.”

“Serious intentions aside, name me just one reason why you would be interested in taking him as a student. And by that I mean not just if you had to put him in your class. Assuming I say 'no, you can't bring him here'. Assuming you had to teach him in your spare time: would you be willing to invest that much in this boy?”

Kurapika fell silent. He paused the video of the solo performance and opened another one; this one a _pas de deux_. The execution of the choreography appeared less clumsy but it may have been due to the guidance of his more experienced partner. They moved to an awful tune; music full of whistling and a beat like steam-powered engine, fast and harsh – music that required a constant play of tensing and relaxing, jerky movements of clockwork accuracy, the puppeteering of one's own limbs.

Kurapika frowned and pursed his lips before he said: “Focus on his face. He's completely open when he dances, see, he's going to make a little misstep, with the camera quality it's hard to tell by just looking at his feet, but you can tell from his facial expressions that he _knows_ he fucked up. He's better when he's dancing with a partner, especially when he's lifting her – he's adapting, matching her, well, maybe leans a bit too much towards her, but. He seems malleable. And I'm so, so sick of the dancers who keep a neutral expression in their audition videos because they think it's more professional.”

“It would make him a bad actor,” Bisky interjected.

“It would make him an authentic actor if he has only a bit of empathy – he should be fine as long as he knows how to get into his role.”

“So you want to teach him because he has good expressions? I don't find that very convincing.”

“You didn't ask me to convince _you_ ; you asked me to convince me. If I had tried to convince you, I would have said something like 'he has a nice butt'.”

“He does, doesn't he? I'm glad you're finally paying attention to these things.”

Kurapika closed his eyes and sighed, shoulders sagging slightly. “That was an example. I assure you, I have no opinion on his buttocks at all.”

For someone who harbored the opinion that joy was the heart of dancing, this child was awfully inept of having fun. During the two years that had passed since she took Kurapika under her wings, Biscuit Krueger had not once heard him laugh with all his heart. He didn't belong in a school, yet that was the place where he had chosen to be. He didn't live up to his true potential and any attempts to approach him only made him more reserved; he didn't bloom up anymore than a plant that grew on poisoned soil. Kurapika came with complex instructions that involved too many un-words: they could not be spoken in his presence, not ever, lest he turned into something wide-eyed and terrible, something hard and bitter and cruel.

“What about the _pas de deux_ class? He's going to need a partner.”

Kurapika thought this over, well aware of the implication that hung in the air: all of their students were teenagers, letting one of them dance with a grown man was unthinkable. And although no one would dare bring it up in front of Bisky, she was unsuited to fulfill the female part in a _pas de deux_. No boy had been able to lift her since she turned sixteen, not one had dared to: she towered over them all. Bodies were cruel dictators, you couldn't just break them into shape like toeshoes.

That left only Kurapika...

“Neon is of legal age,” he said.

It seemed like there were things he would not even do for Melody.

“She skips that class on purpose.”

“Of course she does, if she attends, she'll only be stuck with you as a partner. If the arms she's supposed to lean in belong to a handsome guy, however, she might have a sudden burst of motivation.”

Kurapika rapped his fingernails on the desk, waiting. In matters of arguments he had already won, because anything that might inspire Neon to attend more was worth a shot; her father payed for her classes regardless if she took them or not and he paid half of Kurapika's salary too – but if she decided to give up on ballet altogether, it would be a huge financial blow to the school.

Bisky shifted her weight from one foot to the other and looked down at Kurapika. “Fine. By all means, take the boy, but don't come crying to me if he turns out a brat. God knows, we have enough of those already.”

“Thank you.” Although the light of the screen and the desk lamp cloaked parts of Kurapika's face in peculiar shadows, Bisky could still see the slight curve of a smug grin spreading. She put a small key chain down on his desk.

“Well, now that we settled this, I'll be going. Lock up the studio when you leave, will you? Just leave the keys in my mailbox.”

“Understood.”

Bisky turned on her heel and closed the office door behind her... and lingered, with the back on the wood. He would call right away, wouldn't he? He wouldn't wait until morning to break her the good news, would he?

Faintly, she could hear him speak up and she stood there waiting, not satisfied until his voice grew soft around the edges, which it always did when he was talking to Melody. It was a similar thing with the little Zoldyck girl, but the people that Kurapika was close with were few. Bisky was not one of them.

If it had been anyone else, she would have been perfectly content with the distance; she didn't need to busy herself with other people's issues, but she had had the privilege of seeing Kurapika dance at the beginning of his career.

He used to unfold his entire self on stage.

He used to be beautiful.

Light Nostrade liked to remind Kurapika that the stage was waiting for no one. Light Nostrade didn't know shit about ballet to begin with, all he knew was money and how to invest it, but even he was aware of the whispers and the rumors; neither the stage nor the audience was quite through with Kurapika yet. Seeing him close himself in, poring over his past hurts and wasting his potential on tutoring a bunch of privileged, rich kids... it was such a shame. What he needed was inspiration – and Bisky considered the fact that she could not provide it one of her greatest failures.

So all she could do was wait and hold her breath, hoping for a change.


	2. Faux Départ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which expectations meet reality
> 
> a big thank you goes out to my beta readers, Brii (gaysyndromes@tumblr.com) and Brianna (fuukashourai@tumblr.com)

_You've been acting awful tough lately_  
_Smoking a lot of cigarettes lately_  
_But inside, you're just a little baby_

Marina and the Diamonds, “I am not a robot”

* * *

 Leorio was standing in front of the dance studio, smoking his second cigarette in a row.

It was a friendly enough building in a decent neighborhood. Narrow but three stories high, painted in a light vanilla color and with arched windows, it looked like someone had plucked it from the suburbs and squashed and squeezed until it fit snugly and neatly in the space between two apartment blocks. Much to Leorio's surprise, the studio was not so far from his school or his work; he had walked all the way from uni after his last class and was still early enough to let himself get torn up by his anxiety.

 _How bad could it be?_ , the rational part of him piped up, as he shoved his gym bag out of the pedestrians' way and crammed it between his feet. Surely they wouldn't gobble him up and spit him out, would they? But who knew what humiliations might await him behind those egg-white doors? Dancing class was nothing like uni classes, he suspected; they would leave no option to hide in the mass of the other students: here, being scrutinized would be essential to his learning process. Back with the Spinning Cogs, the other dancers had been too engrossed in learning their own performances to pay the gangly newbie any mind. All but Baise, of course, who liked to watch and tease until Pietro got sick of it and interrupted his teachings to grab Leorio by the collar and pull him into a deep kiss – which served both to cheer up Leorio and to motivate Baise to focus her mind on more pressing matters (which she usually did, after making a low sound like she was going to throw up.)

All this seemed awfully far away.

Steeling himself, he took a last drag and squashed his cigarette on the lid of the nearest trash can before throwing it away. Leorio picked up his bag and put up the collar of his jacket, bracing himself as if he was about to weigh his body against a storm. He slipped into the building exactly twenty minutes before he was supposed to arrive.

The front door led into a staircase; Leorio took the first small flight of stairs in two large strides and found himself in front of the next door, this one adorned with a steel plate which read:

_Pas de Chance Dance Studio  
Mme Biscuit Krueger _

It led straight into a little lobby with a waiting area and a reception desk that reminded Leorio a lot of his dentist's, except there was no computer and the pictures behind the desk were charcoal sketches of people mid-dance instead of the obligatory nature stills. Also, the woman tending to the desk looked anything but busy, eating yogurt out of a jar while tapping away on a tablet screen. She looked up, gave Leorio the once-over and decided he required just enough of her attention to put the yogurt aside, but apparently not enough to address him.

He figured that this had to be invitation enough.

He decided that he wouldn't be intimidated by the silent treatment. Instead, he was intimidated by the fact that her muscled shoulders stretched broader than his and that her hands looked like she could crush his windpipe if he tried something stupid. This lady was the opposite of petite and the only thing she appeared to have in common with the ballerinas that spun around on hard floor boards and the gifs shared on social blogging websites was the perfect bun perched high on the crown of her head.

“Hello,” he said, remembering to use his indoor voice and approaching just close enough to see a game of solitaire displayed on the tablet, “I'm-”

“You're the new kid,” the woman cut him off. She switched off her tablet and slipped the device into a drawer, then leaned back in her office chair. “This is a small school, we don't often see new faces.”

“Ah,” Leorio said. There seemed to be nothing else to say to the matter, after she took his opportunity to introduce himself. He felt singled out already.

“I'm Biscuit Krueger. I own this school. My students call me Bisky, so you will do the same; although you won't be in any of my classes – unless your tutor gives you the okay to join the pas de deux class, that is. You will find the dressing rooms along this hallway. Restrooms, too. You do have your dancing clothes with you, I hope? We can't provide any – there's a notification on the website, but somehow that's the detail that people tend to overlook.”

Leorio patted his bag. “I have everything with me.”

“Well good,” Bisky said and her voice took up a more chipper edge as she swung herself out of her chair and up on her feet, placing a square hand on her strong hips. Everything about her was strong and big and intimidating, except for the pink hydrangea watercolor tattoo that stretched all over her well-muscled left arm. It made Leorio wonder how it would look when she danced. “When you're done changing, you can just go upstairs; all the practice rooms are on the first floor. Your class will be in room 2 – it's empty at the moment, so don't hesitate to go right in and warm up.”

Leorio said his thanks before moving on, but not without thinking what a strange place he ended up in. He felt a bit like he had entered a place that was too clean, too quiet to be real. This was a school, right? Then where was the chatter and laughter and the delightful profanities?

It was surreal, but not surprising, that the boy's dressing room was devoid of penis doodles or heaps of discarded clothing. The wood of the sitting benches shone so amber and smooth that Leorio almost expected it to stick with sap when he pressed his palm on it. It didn't. Nor had anyone etched their teenage wisdom into the surface. The only definite sign that this room had been used prior to his entering could be found on a row of gray lockers: most of them lacked keys, but had a coral red sticker that displayed their owners' names in neat cursive. Leorio claimed an empty one for himself; because like hell was he going to let his possessions lie around, especially not when his expensive textbooks were buried deep within the bottom of his bag.

As Leorio started stripping down, he could hear a pair of feet thumping above his head, accentuating the ghost of a slow-paced choreography he could not witness, but that transformed the existence of other students from a theoretical concept into something firm and graspable... which made Leorio very eager to change as quickly as possible. Because who knew for how long he could enjoy the privilege of privacy? –Showing his naked ass to the rest of class didn't qualify as a good way to make new friends, no matter how much of a lasting impression it would leave.

Putting on the dance belt was the worst part. Years of experience would guide his hands through the ritual of tucking his private parts in the protective gear, but there was no way of getting used to the endlessly stretching seconds in which he was left vulnerable and exposed. The idea of having to do it in company – Leorio tensed up and held his breath as his heart _jumped_ inside his chest like a child flinging itself against the walls of a bouncy castle. His body refused to calm down until all of his hairy legs was covered by a pair of tight leggings.

He made sure all of his stuff was stored away in the locker before wriggling into a loose and plain purple T-shirt that exclaimed _the prosecution is ready to rock._ He also took off his glasses and slipped them in his coat pocket, then headed for class.

When Leorio passed the reception desk, Bisky had already abandoned it – her absence adding to the general sense of emptiness that dominated every hallway in this building. The lack of light wasn't exactly helping the atmosphere either. Due to the crammed position of the house, there was a single window at the end of the hallway that faced a back yard draped in shadows and the staircase was the only place where the sun could spread. Leorio lingered for a bit by a windowsill crammed with pots of pointy and fat-leafed plants, hoping whenever he saw a group of young people walk by that they would turn and enter the school, but also making a mental note that he should avoid loitering outside where he could be so easily spotted.

As he reached the second floor, a door opened in the hallway ahead and a small head peeked out. Leorio had just enough time to notice the black hair tied up in rat tails and a pair of strikingly blue eyes underneath a black fringe when the kid saw him. They let out a mouse-like squeak and slammed the door shut again.

Well, so much for _that_.

It hadn't been his room anyway, the number painted on the door was a yellow '1', with a chubby fairy lolling about it, dressed all in lilacs. Room 2 was marked in a similar matter, the number a deep blue color while the fairy that swung her legs from its arc was clad in forget-me-nots.

As expected, Leorio found it empty and dark. He hit the light switch and a row of halogen lamps came to life with a flicker and a hum, shaping a small room with barres at every wall. Leorio was used to rehearsals in school gyms, so he expected that things could get kind of stuffy once the room filled – but at least this place had a proper mirror front.

He blinked at his reflection as the artificial light revealed that he had neglected his grooming routine this morning, warranting him a dark shadow on his cheeks that no amount of scrubbing and prodding would change... however, maybe it could distract from the very pink zit that was blooming on his temple. He spent a minute on fussing over looking like a crusty gamer dude before he finally admitted to himself that this battle was lost. And it didn't benefit him in the long run anyway – this was class not a fucking runway. He had postponed the stretching long enough.

Leorio ambled to a corner far from the mirrors and turned his back at his reflection. Raising his arms behind his head, he placed his right hand on his left shoulder and his left hand on the angle of his elbow, arching his back. He held that position for a minute, then relaxed and switched the position of his arms. This was the frustrating part: as someone who spent most of his time hunched over desks, he had to begin with very small steps to unwind the tension in his muscles, even more so because he wasn't the most flexible person to begin with. There were many jokes to be made about this, some rich in innuendo, and Leorio would be lying if he said he hadn't heard them all, some even from Pietro – although much more friendly and playful in tone. By now Leorio had made a game out of guessing which of his joints would make a terrifying crack during the process – the knees were always a good bet. And indeed, the moment he finished his first exercise and lowered into a crouch, his right knee popped. Life as an old man was _fun_.

As the minutes trickled away, Leorio began to wonder if there was any class at all, or if he turned out to be the only student. He was tempted to double-check the number of the room or to sneak back down to ask Bisky if maybe he misheard, but at the same time he knew he was better than that, stronger than his uncertainty, and he would stay right where he was and things would work out _just fine_ . Grumbling, Leorio steadied himself with one hand at the barre and raised his leg as high as he could – not up to eye level, but high enough to reach for his ankle and secure the position. Of course, it looked stupid as hell but it was the best he managed without putting too much of a strain on his hips. Maybe if he worried less about how he looked and _tried_ more regularly, he could gain some ground, make some progress.

He was still stuck in his horizontal not-quite-split when the door opened. Leorio let go.

His heel slammed on the floor hard. The pain that kicked in seconds later, first dull, then prickling hot and cold, made his eyes water. Leorio bent over and dug his nails in his thighs, but could not stop the stream of Spanish curses that flew from his tongue, which boiled down to _sonofabitch are you kidding me how much of an idiot do you have to be oh fuck_ -

“Are you okay?” The newcomer asked. Their words jumped slightly with a suppressed amusement. Leorio couldn't even blame them, of course, his little stunt must have looked hilarious.

“I'm fine.” He rubbed the tears away quickly. “You just surprised me.”

“If you stretched your leg against the wall or raised it on the barre, you would easily avoid accidents like this.”

“I swear, I usually use the barre, I just thought-” Leorio took a deep breath as he straightened himself again, propping his hands on his hips. He dug his thumbs in the small of his back with purpose. As Baise liked to put it, he had the hips of an old man, which was one of the reasons she was so hell bent on working hard together to balance out their genetic shortcomings. Of all the things that set them apart, in this they could relate, in this they were equal; Baise was just as limited by the weight of her ample curves as Leorio was by his creaking bones.

 _You're going to be fine_ , Pietro's voice echoed in his head, fainter now than it used to be, wearing out like the corner of a blanket that one likes to rub for comfort. _So what if you need to work harder than the others? You are good at giving your all. You work harder than everyone else. You've got this. And you're not alone._

But he _was_.

Except he wasn't, not in the literal sense. And while he stood entangled in his reminiscences, he had neither answered the other person in the room, nor granted them even the simple decency of establishing eye contact. Leorio turned to make up leeway and-

_Oh._

If a late summer's evening could bear a sprite, and if said sprite came to life in flesh and blood, it would look just like this: warm ocher skin and flax seed hair, dark brown eyes like a pair of maroons laid down neatly on the outskirts of the woods. There was something to be said about those eyes peeking up from behind a flutter of golden lashes with the most curious intent – but the rest of their attire put a bit of a damper on Leorio's romanticized train of thought. He had never met a _fae_ , but he supposed they would dress either flashier (he refused to think of David Bowie in way too tight pants, he _refused_ ) or in a more organic garb than your average leggings-and-oversized-shirt-combination, and they would not crook up their mouth in indignation and fix their bangs with a row of criss-crossed bobby pins.

“I'm lost,” Leorio blurted out. “Er. I mean. I lost my train of thought. Sorry.”

“No, _really_.” Their tongue and eyebrow moved heavy with sarcasm. He hoped they would not get too cocky, or else he'd have to pull their little ponytail; it was rude to pick on the new kids.

“Hey, it's my first day here, so I'm all at sea,” He accentuated this with such a heavy case of the jazz hands, that he might as well have been waving. A wild smile burst on the fairy kid's lips and their hand flew up to cover it – but too late, he had already seen. “I'm Leorio, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Leorio,” slipped between their slender fingers. Their eyes were brimming with warmth and after a moment, they looked away and cleared their throat. “Although you could do with a little less risky stretching techniques. It's no good if you get injured on your first day.”

“Yeah, that would be just my luck,” Leorio replied with a breathy chuckle that made his shoulders quake. “So...”

“Yes?” The blond shifted their footing slightly and raised their chin to return Leorio's inquiring gaze. As their fingers slipped from their lips, and their hand came to rest on their collarbone, Leorio's eyes were immediately drawn to the slope of their shoulders laid mostly bare by a wide collar and where a strap was supposed to show, there was nothing but brown skin. Leorio took that information in with a bit of surprise, because they were wearing a girl's t-shirt. He had expected some undershirt to go with that, or maybe a sport's bra or a binder. Huh.

“'Scuse me, but you didn't introduce yourself,” Leorio pointed out. It would be nice to know at least the name of the first person who had treated him with friendliness here.

“I didn't consider it necessary,” they replied. A frown carved out the lines of their forehead but the smile still tugged on their lips.

“What,” The word rolled off Leorio's tongue before he could spin it into a question. Was this a joke? Had he missed something? Something obvious? “Well, how should I know your name, then?”

“You...”, they began and irritation clouded their expression, “... don't. You're right. That was a mistake on my part and I apologize. I am Kurapika.”

Leorio thought that this was such a weird mistake to make, especially with a name that rare. He didn't dare repeat it; his tongue would never be able to reproduce the melody of these 4 syllables accurately. He was sure if he lived to be one hundred he would never meet another person named _Kurapika_.

“So,” he began, rubbing at his wrist to keep his hands from fluttering about nervously; they were getting clammy with sweat already. “How long have you been in this class?”

Kurapika's lips quivered. With amusement? With discontent? Leorio did not know, nor was he getting his answer, because they were interrupted by the thundering sound of footsteps approaching fast.

“Here we go again.” Kurapika sighed.

The door flew open with a bang.

An amorphous, colorful mass urged forward and into the room, and came to an abrupt halt as it was stuck in the doorway. Among the wriggling and the flailing limbs, Leorio made out three boys who couldn't be a day older than sixteen. The two boys to each side, one as pale as the moon and one as brown and spotted as a hyena, were fighting with tooth and nail to get forward, wedging the third in their midst. The poor kid looked rather uncomfortable and like he wanted to be anywhere else. Now, if they had all just stopped pushing and let the middle kid take a step back, their dilemma would have been easily solved – but from the way the outer boys were competitively swatting at one another, it did not look like they would come to that conclusion soon.

“What exactly do you think you're doing?” Kurapika's voice rose above the ruckus and the boys froze.

“Hey, Kurapika,” they yelled in greeting, one voice more strained than the others because the middle boy - who had eyebrows as bushy as black caterpillars – held his breath frantically in an attempt to make himself thinner. He slipped through suddenly, and fell forward.

“Zushi won!”, the freckled kid yelled.

“He just flopped on the floor, that doesn't count at all,” the pale kid complained, not happy about the outcome at all. His hair was messy and so white that it had to be bleached.

“But Killua, you said-”

“We got stuck, so no one wins. We need a rematch.”

“I don't want one,” the boy on the floor, who appeared to be Zushi, whined and rubbed his shoulder.

“And you won't get one,” Kurapika decided, which put the discussion immediately to an end. Zushi looked from Kurapika to Leorio and back to Kurapika again. “Do we have a guest teacher today?”

“Actually no, Leorio is going to stay with us as a student.”

“This old geezer?”, Killua sneered.

Leorio sputtered. “Who are you calling old you little-”

“Leorio,” Kurapika hissed and Leorio winced at the tone. To be reprimanded after he and Kurapika got on so well, that stung. Killua snorted, but his glee didn't last long.

“Killua, you will behave yourself, or else I'll tell Alluka.”

“Where _is_ Alluka, anyway?”, Zushi asked and Killua shot him a vicious look.

“Why don't you ask _Kurapika_?” Killua crossed his arms in front of his chest and sulked.

Zushi lost the desire to ask anything. The freckled kid tried to appeal to Killua's good sides, but Killua sulked even _harder_. All in all, it was a mess, worse than kindergarten. Leorio wondered how he deserved this.

“Can't believe we're stuck with a bunch of teenagers as classmates” he muttered, angling his body down to Kurapika ever so slightly.

“Oh, I wouldn't say that.”

Leorio was going to ask if this meant that there were more students closer to their age – Kurapika had to be twenty, twenty-one – when they surprised Leorio by patting his arm lightly. There was something apologetic in the way they smiled up at Leorio and he felt a knot in his stomach.

“Play nice,” they said, as if they were going to leave him alone with these... _children_. Except Kurapika didn't leave. They clapped and the boys straightened.

“Since we have someone new in class, we will postpone the pirouettes for a bit and refresh the basics. This also applies to the stretching.”

Killua opened his mouth to protest, but Kurapika continued: “If anyone has a problem with that, they're welcome to join Bisky's class for today.”

The knot in Leorio's stomach grew as he realized that Kurapika was not a student at all.

 

Class went smoothly after that, the only disturbance being Leorio's mood. He was equal parts morose and embarrassed, not sure if he had the right to be angry with himself or Kurapika. He had been _played_ , that much was sure, but this could have been easily avoided if only he had done some preparations for class. Now it made sense that Kurapika had forgotten to introduce themselves; there was probably information on the staff at the school's website that Leorio had missed. And the fact that he hadn't checked this out would look like he didn't really care, so he was already off to a bad start. But how hard could it have been for Kurapika to explain his mistake right away? Instead, they had played along. And laughed. Deceptive little asshole. But he would show them. He was going to try so hard in this damn class and then Kurapika would feel sorry for-

“Leorio, relax, your pliés are too stiff. And keep your back straight.”

 _Keep your back straight if nothing else_ , that's what Baise would have said. Leorio already missed her, because damn, it sucked to be the only adult in a group of teens. That was not to say that he wouldn't be able to get along with them, but he didn't expect to make friends here, nor would he pull off a John Green and _try_.

“Killua, stop making faces, you are free to goof around with Gon _after_ class.”

He could still do it. The situation wasn't ideal, but he couldn't let that stop him.

“Zushi, please correct the angle of your feet.”

He had never let that stop him.

“Leorio, your feet are standing too wide.”

'The flower that blooms in adversity', and so on.

 

“I don't like him.”

“Yes, I gathered that much from your behavior earlier.”

Killua huffed and put his arms behind his head, stretching and rising up on his tiptoes. He was putting on a show, Kurapika knew, but the question was: for whom, Gon and Zushi? Since Killua had decided to have this discussion right before the dressing room, the other boys would no doubt catch some of it while Killua would maintain the illusion of having a private conversation, so this was a maybe. There was also the possibility that he used the opportunity to stall some time before he went to change; he used every excuse to avoid dressing at the same time as Gon. Kurapika couldn't blame him for that, but it didn't help him to figure out how seriously he was supposed to take Killua's complaints.

“I think it's unfair that Alluka gets kicked out of class just because of him.”

“Alluka isn't 'kicked out of class', I rescheduled her for now. She isn't missing out on anything, nor did she seem unhappy with the change.”

Killua unfolded his arms and fell back on his heels. Inching just a little closer, narrowing his eyes, he asked: “'For now'? So it's not going to be a permanent solution?”

Ah, and here they were at the root of the problem. “We'll have to see.”

“Ha! So you _are_ kicking her out.”

“I will have to try and figure out the best solution for everyone, and I would appreciate it if you didn't question my means, nor my intentions. But since you're obviously so concerned, I'll have you know that I have been thinking about some private tutoring for Alluka anyway. She is old enough to join the en pointe class and after that there will be the pas de deux class, and I would like to monitor her development more closely to figure out what kind of education she needs and wants. Her comfort is one of my main priorities, and I believe the same can be said for you. This doesn't have anything to do with Leorio. And even if it had anything to do with him, it was still _my_ decision, so there's no need to pick on him because of it.”

Kurapika could see Killua's jaw working, grinding slightly as he figured out the best way to admit that Kurapika was right without openly admitting it. Killua hated to lose.

“Where is Alluka, anyway,” he mumbled. Kurapika noticed how he drew up his shoulders and started to fidget with his collar. He wondered how much Killua wished that he had worn a turtleneck right now. “She said that we would meet up after class.”

“I let her into the break room so she can do her homework in peace.” It also served well to keep her from running into Leorio, who Kurapika had asked to remain in the practice room until the boys were done changing. He wanted to figure out what kind of person Leorio was before he let both of them into the same room. Of course, should he prove to be the kind of man that couldn't be trusted with Alluka, Kurapika would not hesitate to send him on his way – to try his luck in another school.

“If that was all that concerned you, I suggest you don't let her wait.”

Once again Killua morphed into a prime example of a sulking teenager, managing a perfect balance of haughtiness and casual incredulity, which Kurapika was willing to indulge to an extent. It hadn't been too long since he had been a teenager himself. And, as much as it pained him to admit, he had been not unlike Killua. Perhaps a bit less cocky, although Pairo would disagree.

They gave one another the silent treatment. Leaning against opposite walls and mirroring each other's’ poses, crossing arms, cocking heads, perfectly ready for a stare-off. Then Gon yelled through the closed door and Killua's attention crumbled.

“Kurapika? Are you done scolding Killua?”

“He wasn't scolding me!”, Killua squawked.

Gon seemed to care little about the details. He bolted out of the dressing room; not an unusual sight to see. Always quick on his toes, always on the move: Gon Freeccs had a spring in his step that a lot of people would envy him for. Sadly, it also meant that Gon was bad at adapting to paces slower than his own.

“Say, Gon, what do you think of your new classmate?”, Kurapika cheerfully asked.

The question took him by surprise. He skittered to a halt in front of Killua and looked at Kurapika with his big, honey brown eyes. Gon had a different way of seeing the world; he could pick up details that others would miss while remaining oblivious to the obvious–

“He would smell better if he stopped smoking.”

– which did not mean that his input was always useful.

Killua chortled and patted Gons shoulders.

“What? Did I say something wrong?”

“No, Gon,” Kurapika offered warmly. “You are absolutely right. And if he ever smokes around you, tell me, because I won't have any of that.”

“Okay.”

Gon inched closer to Killua. An impish grin spread on his face. “Ne, Killua...”

“What?”

“Aren't you forgetting something?”

“Am I forgetting what?” Still a bit closer. Quite clearly offering a cheek now. Realization set in and Killua's cheeks turned the brightest shade of pink.

“Dude, no. Here? Are you stupid or what?” He tried to shove Gon's face away. But like a puppy, Gon just kept on edging forward.

“Kil~lu~aaaaa. C'mon, Kurapika _knows._ ”

Kurapika knew indeed. Ever since he had to tell Killua that even the nicest turtleneck could not cover up a hickey that was placed too high, that bit of awareness could save him a lot of trouble later. Besides, nothing was more suspicious than wearing a turtleneck sweater in the summer.

“Well, I guess I will leave now under the pretense of checking on Leorio, so you two can do whatever you don't want me to see. I'll see you on Thursday.”

Bisky liked to say that embarrassing one's principles was part of the job.

It built character, apparently.

Kurapika was not so sure about that, but god, it was fun.

 

When Kurapika returned, Leorio had the opportunity to take his tutor's appearance in properly the second time, comparing the reality to his expectations. They had as much in common as amber and basaltic rock. Leorio had expected a man at least in his forties, with stern eyes and gaunt cheeks that spoke of an ascetic life style, a face that was not rich in wrinkles but those present would be carved in the more deeper for it. Someone who took every step with a weight that demanded respect. Placed aside this cold, stony image, Kurapika was glowing with life, golden and... fuller. He seemed larger than he was, yes – but also lighter, Leorio concluded as Kurapika tiptoed closer in little fluid motions.

“I'm really sorry about the hassle with the dressing room. I will try to think of a better solution for the future, but for now I'm afraid you'll just have to wait,” he said.

Leorio assured that it was fine, even though it was not – working in customer service had left him with the knee-jerk reaction to comply, to be as low-maintenance as possible. He felt the weight of all the work he still had to do increase with every minute that he spent standing here, doing nothing.

“Right. I should also mention that the amount of classes in this school is limited, so I can't really offer you to switch, but it also means we're a bit more flexible. So if our current schedule doesn't agree with yours, just send me a copy of your class schedule to my work e-mail. It's the one you got your confirmation message from. Don't use the one given on the website, this one is Bisky's and she hates it when she gets my mail. Is... anything the matter?” Kurapika's hand went up to his ear, his thumb smoothed over the helix.

“No? Just. Um, earlier I thought- it's quite funny actually, but I totally mistook you for a student.” It didn't sound funny. At all. Leorio had hoped that joking about it would improve the mood, well, Kurapika's face didn't lighten up a single lumen, so that was that. “So in my defense, I expected someone a little less...” Leorio made a vague gesture that entailed everything about his tutor and hesitated when it occurred to him how _rude_ he was being.

“A little less _what?_ ” His tongue shaped the last word sharply, prompting. Kurapika's eyebrow raised. Dangerously so.

“A little less... my age. I mean, not that there's anything wrong with that, I just always thought tutoring is something for people who retired from the stage, that's all.”

It had been the wrong thing to say, a little less wrong than the other options, but still wrong. (He should have said 'a little less of an ethereal beauty'. Too late for that now.)

Kurapika stepped closer, tension winding up in his limbs, scrutinizing Leorio with a glance sharper than a hawks. He enunciated his words with care: “What exactly do you know about me?”

“N-nothing? Listen, I'm sorry, Melody didn't mention you much, not even your name, she just said she had a friend and I made assumptions I obviously shouldn't have. I'm not trying to be a prick on purpose, I swear.”

Leorio lived through an itchy moment of being doubtfully squinted at.

“She didn't say my name?” Kurapika relaxed. “Makes sense.”

Leorio failed to see what part of this made sense exactly, but he was not going to complain if Kurapika wanted to let the matter rest.

“Leorio, can you do me a favor?”

“Sure,” he blurted out, perhaps a bit too quick. Was he eager to please? Always. Did anyone have to know? Absolutely not. “What is it?”

“Please refrain from telling anyone that I am working here.”

“O-kay.” He stretched the first vowel much more cheerfully than he felt. “Why?”

“None of your concern. What should concern you, however, is to keep in mind that you're going to be a role model for your younger classmates, whether you like it or not. I don't care what you do in your spare time, but you will not show up drunk, stoned or high on any other substance in this school, did I make myself clear?”

“I don't-”

“Gon already noticed that you smoke. Which I am fine with, as long as you keep it out of the children's reach. Out of their eyes, out of their faces. I'm not saying you _would_ do such a thing – I trust you to be a sensible enough young man to know better. Which is exactly why I'm telling you this, I would not bother explaining to you the rules of this house if I thought you were unable to follow them. But you have to understand that I am responsible for these children and their well-being and I will not tolerate any kind of inappropriate behavior.”

Leorio drew in a deep breath. He had this habit of getting lost in his own hurts and insecurities, sometimes petty, sometimes very painful, but if he shoved his nagging anxiety aside, he could see Kurapika's sincerity. The fierce protectiveness in his dark eyes. Leorio found this side of him even more appealing than the playful teasing and the helpful friendliness Kurapika showed at first. This was a boy who would not hesitate to get in a fight to defend what he stood far, which was an attitude Leorio respected deeply.

“I'm not going to be any trouble, I swear.”

“Good,” Kurapika said and it carried the threat, no, the promise that he would take Leorio by his word. “Then you're free to go and I will see you on Thursday. And don't forget to tell Melody your thanks.”

“I won't.”

 

It was when Leorio went down the stairs with a spring in this step that he noticed that his mind felt cleared, oddly light and that his heart was beating fast with _anticipation._ This was an experience he might come to enjoy, after all.

 


	3. Ne perturbe pas le rythme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which good intentions, not pride, come before a fall as Leorio makes a lot of small mistakes and Kurapika makes one big one.
> 
> A big thank you goes out to my beta Brii (gaysyndromes on the tungle) for looking through this quickly so I can get it up in time for Pika's birthday.

_You've been hanging with the unloved kids_  
_Who you never really liked and you never trusted_  
_But you are so magnetic, you pick up all the pins_

Marina and the Diamonds, “I am not a robot”

* * *

You were eighteen when you met the man with a smile like a sickle; slim and hard and sharp enough to cut yourself on. But you didn't. Instead, you bruised over how wrong his hands felt, how loveless his limbs moved, how the troubles he caused pearled off his perfect lotus facade. You were eighteen still when you decided to hate him, even though hate was a strong word for something so childish, so petty. You were always so careful with your words. Pedantic, even.

Then he told you to “man up”.

His humor might have been affectionate, but you could not focus on anything but the way his comment impaled you; it entered you low in your gut and stuck there, like a harpoon, sent out to damage you.

He might have been simply ignorant.

Your fist flew regardless, and you hit him square in the jaw and sent him toppling back. The world stopped moving for a heartbeat. When its gears started turning again, you fled the studio, his laughter ringing in your ears.

You ran through the maze of hallways, taking large strides that were almost stage jumps. In your toe shoes, this way of moving came most natural to you, and you barely wasted a thought to the destination of your escape until you heard music flowing gently.

There was a little commotion in the orchestra when you all but slipped into the pit, but once you hid behind a row of woodwind players and showed no inclination to disturb them any further, they went back to their rehearsal.

You sat down cross-legged and pulled off your toe shoes, stretching your feet by pressing them against your palm. The blister on your middle toe had started to bleed again and now that the adrenaline and excitement of dancing wore off, the pain resurfaced sharp and burning.

 

They found you too soon.

Pakunoda looked beyond pissed, and if the news had traveled to her that quickly, it meant your little stunt had left the company's bad boy unable to perform. (Not that it mattered, because unlike you, he was only working on one project at the moment, which was not ready for stage yet. You allowed yourself a moment of heated pride at the thought of his face bruising up.)

She barely rose her voice to ask you what the hell you had been thinking but the orchestra fell quiet. Their eyes all lay on you, some annoyed, some with unveiled curiosity.

“He challenged my masculinity,” you said coolly, “I just gave him what he was asking for.”

Part of you cringed at how much you sounded like a teenage boy who got in a pissing contest. That was not the sort of man you wanted to become. But because of everything that you were and were not, the statement gained a different weight, and even Pakunoda would have to realize that you were not the only one who overstepped his boundaries.

She grimaced.

“I understand that your position is difficult. But there was no need to knock your partner down just because he made you uncomfortable.”

“You don't know that,” you heard someone speak up right next to your ear. A small woman, plump and soft, who barely towered over you even as you remained on the floor and she stood up. Still, she managed to impress you. Few dared to defy Paku.

“Pardon?”

“You don't know if there was no need, considering you cannot possibly know his train of thought.“

You had no idea who this woman was, but she knew you well enough to _care_ and that was all that mattered. You would find out and you would give her your thanks.

Pakunoda scoffed and ignored the remark. “Learn to control your temper. This is a ballet company, not a circus.”

This deliberate jab at you was swallowed without complaints, because as long as they lounged at your ego, you could endure it. And it wasn’t like the girls in middle school hadn't flung worse at you. You can still hear their whispered rumors buzzing around your head like a swarm of wasps.

“Sulk as much as you want, just don't miss your appointment at physio. And I'll expect you to put twice as much effort in your solo parts, do you hear me?”

As if she had to tell you. You were dancing for yourself, for you and only you, for the person that you were and that you wanted to become, you danced and you tested your limitations to remind yourself that you can surpass them, that you are not defined by them. Your dance was not a dialogue, but an introspective.

You waited for Pakunoda to leave, then you rose to your feet. The musician had not left your side. She blinked, waiting for you to make a move.

“Thank you,” you said. It didn't feel enough, but her smile was warm and welcoming and nothing else mattered. She offered her hand. You offered her your elbow with an excuse that your hands kind of smelled like feet, and that made her giggle.

“I'm Melody,” she said. You introduced yourself and she let you, although she confessed that she already knew your name. (Most people did. When you joined the company, the news traveled fast among the stuff, fueled by an air of sensationalism.)

Every day from then on, she would save you a little.

* * *

Disillusion set in during the course of the first week.

No matter which qualities Leorio possessed as a person, he proved to be a terrible student; eager, yes, but hardly malleable, and the quality of his performance was fickle and hazy. The thrill Kurapika had felt upon meeting him – the novelty, the buzzing of raw potential running like current under a person's skin – quickly wore off.

 

“I am giving him the benefit of doubt, I really am,” he explained to Melody on their first brunch during the Saturday after he took Leorio under his wings, “but finding excuses for him isn't going to improve his dancing in the long run.”

Leorio had an awful posture; always crouching like he was trying to evade a blow. And the more Kurapika pointed it out, the worse it seemed to get during class. Was it insecurity? Perhaps. It was too early to tell and Kurapika was no therapist. If a mental barrier was to blame that Leorio's ambition did not translate into results, the means to respond to that were limited for him. For now the best he could do was to make sure he corrected the rest of his students just as often as Leorio, so as to avoid him feeling singled out. He seemed to be the sulky type, like Killua.

“I have yet to see any of the qualities I found in his application video.”

“Have you tried to ask him why he's struggling? Maybe that will help you understand-”

“I'm his tutor, not his friend,” Kurapika defended himself, visibly irritated. “I can adapt my teaching pace to his abilities, but he needs to be able to work with what I provide in the first place. And if he is blocked in any way, he needs to find his own way around.”

Melody fell quiet. She spread some cream cheese on her bread roll; the sunlight caught on her blade and blinded Kurapika. He blinked. Sat back. Brushed some invisible lint off his pants.

“I'm hoping he will fare better once he's comfortable with the rest of class,” he added quietly.

 

Of course, if you asked Leorio, things were going great. Coordinating all of his duties was quite a feat, but not an impossible one. He had ballet class three times a week, and often would meet up with Baise right after to rehearse, and to save himself the trouble of warming up twice. He could devote the afternoons of the remaining week days to his studies, the homework, and the class preparation. The weekend was for doing laundry in the morning and then he was off to work. True, he went to bed late and got up early, and had to take every opportunity to nap in between classes, and every hour that was not spent sleeping was filled with some kind of work. There was no time for fun activities.

But he managed and that was all that mattered.

And then the mock trial came around. Leorio had to carve more hours out of his weekly curriculum, to reference and cross-reference, to meet up with his fellow aspiring attorneys for composing an opening statement and discussing their tactics. One, two hours of sacrificed sleep more, one, two additional cigarettes, smoked hastily as he paced from one location to the next, what difference would it make?

Exhaustion embraced him like an old friend, helped him lay down his heavy limbs when the day came to an end and greeted him in the morning again.

He could still go on. He had to.

 

Leorio was confronted with his limitations on the second Thursday in Kurapika's class. It started with a slight tremor of his hand that had him clutching the barre tighter. The jittering traveled up his spine and down his knees. Leorio breathed in long and deep – but even breathing felt like a struggle. It was like his lungs wouldn't expand wide enough if he didn't put serious effort into it. The air that floated through them slipped out as a long-suffering sigh.

The kids neatly lined up before him all turned their heads. Kurapika, too, seemed to stare at him from a distance too far as that Leorio could tell his exact expression, but he chose to imagine his teacher with sharp eyes and an unhappy mouth.

“Leorio, can I have a word with you outside?”, Kurapika said, which in Leorio's head translated to ‘you are fucked. You are so, so fucked’. But he could not refuse.

He felt a headache coming up.

Kurapika surprised him with a rather unusual request as soon as the door of the practice room closed behind them.

“Stand on one leg.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

He tried, but his legs chose this very moment to disobey him. He struggled to keep his balance as soon as he shifted the center of his weight. He flailed. Kurapika took a step towards him, arms outstretched as if he meant to catch Leorio if he should fall. Leorio gave up on trying.

“I'm not drunk.” (He had had a glass of cheap wine last night to help him sleep, but that barely counted.) “I swear I'm not drunk, I have no idea what's wrong.”

Still reaching out, Kurapika stepped into Leorio's space, his eyes dark and intent. Leorio wanted to squirm at the attention.

Kurapika's fingertips came up to touch the valley under Leorio's ears, where the jaw met the neck. He applied slight pressure there and then repeated the procedure under the chin.

“You look sick, but your lymph nodes aren't swollen. Huh. Are you feeling dizzy?”

“Not really. I'm good, I promise. I didn't get much sleep last night, I guess.”

“Is that so,” Kurapika said, giving each syllable a weight that Leorio found uncanny. He withdrew. “Your hands are shaking.”

Leorio balled them to fists.

“When did you last eat?” There was an accusation in Kurapika's tone that Leorio didn't like at all; and he would have loved to tell his teacher to fuck off because he could look after himself.

“Why, is that an invitation?”, he sneered instead. Maybe being close enough to make out the lines of Kurapika's face was not so good after all. His eyes went wide, and Leorio could have done without the sight of any remaining kindness draining from his teacher's face, smoothing over his wrinkles and leaving nothing but a sleek, hard mask.

His heart missed a beat, and for a second, it felt like it was plunging through his rib cage, then raced to catch up with itself. _Fuck_. He _really_ couldn't afford to get an anxiety attack right now.

Like the universe stretching outwards and imploding, his perception drifted out of focus and then concentrated on himself. His vision turned blurry, the sound of his blood rushing and heart pumping rose to drown everything else out.

_Thump-thump._

When _had_ he last eaten a proper meal?

_Thump-thump._

He had missed going to the canteen because he met up with his group partners. Breakfast? Coffee and two granola bars from a snack machine.

_Thump-thump-thump._

Spots danced around the corners of his vision. His tongue felt alien in his mouth; swallowing took a lifetime.

_Leorio._

Someone was calling him, touching his arm. The sensation seemed far away. His eyelids fluttered and suddenly he remembered how absurdly golden Kurapika's lashes were-

Kurapika. Kurapika was the one calling him.

It was the last coherent thought Leorio could muster before he was out like a light.

 

He woke to the sound of footsteps. Their vibration tickled his cheek and hummed through his skull. The floor pressing against his skin felt cool and much nicer that the soggy cloth around his neck.

“Found it!” Gon's voice.

Someone had an iron grip around his wrist; two fingers dug into his pulse.

“Is he dead?”, he could hear someone ask. Their voice sounded female and didn't strike a memory.

Leorio wished he was dead. Being dead was far more attractive than having to face a bunch of people making a fuss about him.

“Of course he's not dead,” Kurapika snapped, more ferociously than Leorio had ever heard him. He was glad not to be on the receiving end of _that_ remark.

“Thank you, Gon.” The grip around his wrist loosened.

“Looks like he's waking up,” Gon announced. Now there was no way Leorio could continue feigning unconsciousness. He opened his eyes a crack... and stared right at Kurapika's thighs, because his tutor was kneeling in front of him.

Leorio sat up slowly.

There wasn't as much of a crowd as he had feared, Gon and the girl he heard were the only other ones to witness his disgrace. She was kind of cute with her azure dyed hair, intense green eyes and her cherry gloss lips. Dammit. This was the worst kind of first impression to make.

She waved at him and said hi.

“You're back,” Gon cheered.

Kurapika said nothing at all, just eyed him austerely and shoved a bottle of juice in Leorio's hands, cold and moist with condensation. “Drink, but not too hastily or you'll throw up,” Kurapika urged him. There was no reason for concern: Leorio had a weird taste in his mouth and a woozy feeling in his stomach, so food was the last thing he wanted at the moment. He would rather had pressed the bottle against his forehead. The juice was sweet and kind of thick, with a weird aftertaste. Carrots, Leorio thought absent-mindedly. He hated carrots. They reminded him of the time when he was ten and got the worms and his mother had made him eat minced carrots to every meal.

“Neon, can you take over class for a bit?”, Kurapika asked.

“Haha, no,” the girl with the absurdly green eyes snickered. Her face fell when Kurapika turned to her. “I mean, I can try. I doubt they will listen to me, though.”

“It's only for a few minutes. Gon, help her. Think of a nice challenge to keep yourself busy.”

Leorio drank. And drank. Frankly, it was a bit exhausting and when he looked at the bottle. It seemed that his sips would not even add up to fill a whole glass. He felt Neon's eyes fixed on him every step she took until she disappeared in the practice room, Gon following right behind her.

“Sorry for causing so much trouble.” He sounded like he had just gargled sand, raspy and sore.

“Don't do that. Ever. Again. I was so close to calling an ambulance.” Kurapika huffed tiredly and rubbed his hands over his thighs nervously. His expression softened, just a little bit: “How are you feeling?”

Leorio put down the bottle between his legs. “Like shit.”

“Alright, you know what? I _am_ going to call an ambulance.”

“What? No. Please, that's really not necessary, I'm just whining. Really, I'm good. Besides, my partner is going to kill me if I don't show up for practice.”

Kurapika's eyes narrowed in on Leorio and he raised his hands in frustration. “You collapsed right in front of me! I think your partner can manage without you just this once.”

“You don't know Baise, she would never let me hear the end of it,” Leorio reasoned. He didn't like the direction of where this was going, _at all_. What business had Kurapika questioning what he did outside of class?

“Well, maybe you need a different partner, then,” Kurapika said viciously.

“God, can you get off my dick for like five seconds?”

 

“He didn't really say that.”

That was the first thing Melody had said on their second post-Leorio brunch together, because from the moment they had met, Kurapika had not stopped complaining. Kurapika, who wore an expression as gloomy as the misty gray sky outside the cafe window and had laughter as bitter as the coffee he stirred. “Oh, he did. Word for word.”

“You don't sound angry,” Melody remarked.

“I'm not.” He had been shocked at first, because Leorio had been nothing but compliant up to this point. And maybe he had called Leorio an ungrateful prick once he recovered a bit.

He pulled the spoon out on his coffee and tapped it on the ring of the cup two times, before he put it away.

Melody wore her sorrowful expression, the one she had reserved just for Kurapika it seemed. “But something's bothering you.”

“I didn't know what to do.”

“When he insulted you?”

“When he _fainted,_ ” he stressed, with no small amount of frustration. “I was just standing there, uselessly. And then I panicked. I had to get _Gon_ to tell me what to do. And what do I do as soon as Leorio regains consciousness? I criticize his friend. No wonder he was mad at me.” Kurapika leaned back in his seat, combing through his hair, gathering it at the back of his head as if he was going to tie it to a ponytail. Then he thought better of it, and dropped his hand in his lap. “The sad thing is, that was the most passionate I've ever seen him.” And it had been drowned out by sheer panic and frantic apologies right after that. Kurapika wanted to know where this could have gone. If they had a proper fight, he might even find out what was bothering Leorio. Anger could often reveal more than kindness.

Kurapika stabbed a croissant, as if to make a point. “What was your impression of his partner? You met her, didn't you?”

Melody hummed in thought. “I wouldn't say I 'met' her. I never spoke a word with her. But I saw them dance together. She looked confident, a bit harsh maybe, but that could have been just her face. They work together well on stage. Their performance was not very intimate, but I think that was in the nature of the piece. Why are you asking? Do you really think she has a bad influence on Leorio?”

“I can't tell. I just know he's pushing himself too hard and he is either using her as an excuse or she is actually enforcing that kind of behavior. Either way, he needs to start looking after himself- what? What are you smiling about?”

Melody jotted a finger in the air and drew a little circle. “That's so hypocritical coming from you.”

Kurapika was taken aback, but cracked a little smile. He cut his croissant and laid it out, two neat yellow crescents. “Shut up. That doesn't make it any less true.”

“So?”, Melody inquired.

“So what?”

“Did he cancel his rehearsal?”

“Not right away, no. He had his reasons why he couldn't.”

 

“There's an audition this Sunday, okay? It would be unfair to miss a rehearsal so close to the critical date, so I'm a bit on edge, I'm sorry if I-”

“That's soon.” Kurapika cut him off, not eager to hear yet another wave of apologies, especially because he was in no mood to accept them. He was in no mood to believe that Leorio was fit for that rehearsal either. He kept shooting nervous glances over his shoulder as he walked down the hallway, past the practice rooms, to see if there was a stagger in Leorio's step.

“I don't expect to get picked, but she can't dance a _pas de deux_ on her own, now, can she?”

“If she was Princess Tutu, she could,” Kurapika remarked.

“Who?”

“Really, Leorio? Really?” He thumbed through his keys, wondering if Leorio had watched any kind of ballet performance at all; if he had taken interest in anything beyond the projects of his old group. Even if he lacked the time and financial means to buy tickets for the theater, there was always YouTube. (And that he had not even seen Princess Tutu was just kind of sad).

Twice Kurapika tried the wrong key before he found the one to unlock the archive door. He turned on the lights.

“What _is_ this room?”

Rows of grey office shelves and cabinets stretched across the walls. An old TV, fat and equally gray was perched on a hifi rack in the middle of the room, wired to a DVD and a VHS player. Chairs were stacked in one corner, but the reason why Kurapika had sought this place out was the ugly brown velours couch that had been arranged facing the TV.

“This is where we keep the video material, like the tapes that come with applications or performances that were sent in by former students. Yours would be here too, if you had sent a physical copy.”

“You want me to watch some of these?”

Kurapika spun on his heels so fast that Leorio flinched and took a swaying step back. “Of course not. I want you to take a rest. Try to sleep if you can, but lie down at least.”

“What about class?”

Kurapika put his hands on his hips and stared up at Leorio, summoning all of his frustration and weighing it in his stare; as if to compensate the centimeters that separated them in height by sheer willpower. Leorio added to the cause by shrinking away.

“You don't get class today, you get a lesson. And if you're serious about this, if you are serious about being a dancer, you better memorize it. Your body is a resource, not a tool. If you want to unlock your full potential, you need to keep yourself in good shape. You need rest, you need to eat, you need to keep out an eye on your health. I know it's a common attitude in sports to push through regardless, and maybe that's useful advice when dealing with minor inconveniences, but this...”, Kurapika made a vague gesture that seemed to entail Leorio's entire presence in the room. Then he huffed. “Why are you still _standing_ , would you at least sit down. I swear, if you pass out again, don't count on me to catch you.”

Leorio slinked into a seat, never taking his eyes off Kurapika. “I'm fine,” he complained. “Kinda. I used to donate blood, it's not the first time my circular system freaks out a bit.”

“It's a sign that you need to take a step back. You only have one body and you're going to have to live with it for the rest of your life, while the time you have on stage is limited. I'm not going to chop your head off if you skip a class because you need to look after yourself first.”

Leorio folded his hands together in his lap and stared at his thumbs as if they were to blame for him being scolded. His lips puckered up to a childish pout, but quickly morphed into something crooked and unhappy.

Watching Leorio think was fascinating in a way. Like the ground underneath an agitated sea, his features were constantly changing, wrinkles rippling up in the undertow of muscles that grew taut and relaxed. Sometimes the course of this tide happened so quickly that Kurapika wanted to reach out and freeze the moment, as to better study each emotion. They were more telling than the silence, that much was obvious.

“I don't want to fall behind the rest of class. More than I already have, I mean.”

“I understand,” Kurapika assured. “But everyone makes different progress. Let me tell you something-”

 

“You didn't bring up the diamond simile, did you?”, Melody interrupted the very agitated tale.

“It's a metaphor, not a simile. And there's nothing wrong with it.”

“Human's aren't carbon, Kurapika. They are much, much more complex than that. And not just in a chemical sense.”

“It gets the point across,” he argued.

Melody did not look convinced, and it started to nag at Kurapika. When it came to human interaction, she was his compass, the standard he could judge his actions by. But he really, really liked that metaphor.

 

“Let me tell you something. People send their children to this school, thinking they are diamonds in the rough, that they need some polishing and some cutting and their talents will shine. In reality, they are sending me coal.”

“Coal?”, Leorio repeated incredulously. He finally had the sense to put his feet up on the armrest and stretch out on the couch.

“Yes. It doesn't mean that they can't become diamonds, but it takes the right pressure, the right heat, and lots and lots of time.”

“So you're saying I'm a piece of coal too?”, Leorio asked, squinting. That was another thing Kurapika had noticed about him, that he was always screwing up his face when one demonstrated a figure, like he had trouble understanding, or some criticism to add. But if he had some sort of input, he kept quiet about it.

“You're not a piece of coal, more like... a block of graphite, pressed into the shape of a diamond. If I were to apply the same pressure to you, you'd crumble and fall apart. So you can't blame yourself for not keeping up with the rest of class. These children have a completely different background than you. They have the security of years of experience and the benefit of youth. And _health_ , Leorio. You cannot help the lack of experience, but you can work on your fitness.”

 

“In the end he asked me to skip the Friday class, so he could postpone the training with his partner. When I checked up on him again, he was preparing to leave and said something about homework and mock trials. I think he was embarrassed about the whole ordeal,” Kurapika concluded. For him, the worst feeling was not knowing if he cared or not. Because he should. He owed it to his students to care.

“Did you wish him good luck?”

“What for?”

“The audition.”

 _'He doesn't even intend to get picked,'_ was the answer that lay on Kurapika's tongue, but he swallowed it with a bitter hint of guilt. “He's there because he wants to support his partner; he shouldn't have a motivation problem.”

Melody rubbed her nose. “It's not really about motivation,” she said. “It's about showing that you believe in him.”

“Well, I don't.”

“Yes, and you made that very clear when you literally told him that he is not even on the same level as the kids; do you really think he left the studio feeling like he was ready for an audition?”

“I didn't mean to-” But intentions didn't matter, what mattered was the message Leorio got out of it.

 _'I messed up.'_ Kurapika tugged at his earlobe, his thumb brushing over silver hoops. “Well, it's too late now. I can't unsay what I've said. Besides, it's not like he listens to me anyway. You should see how he looks at me in class, like he doesn't trust me to be competent enough.” Not that he had given Leorio much reason to trust him. Their initial misunderstanding when they first met had been amusing from Kurapika's perspective – he had never met an aspiring ballet dancer who didn't know who he was, or rather who he _used_ to be – but Leorio might have felt mislead. Mocked even. No surprise that all he got in response was silence and doubtful squinting. He had messed up from the very beginning.

“Kurapika? Are you alright?”

“I'm fine,” he pressed, rather surly. It _had_ to be fine. For now there was no reason to assume that Leorio had taken the worst possible meaning from his words. Or that it would upset him so much that it affected his entire performance. Except that Leorio seemed to be affected by the slightest breeze, sensitive to a default, constantly apologetic. Kurapika was not ignorant to the signs of anxiety; he remembered all the warm words and arm rubbing that it had taken to cheer up his cousin Shoot long enough to get him on stage. He wished, not for the first time, that he had inherited some of his parents' knack for people.

Leorio would make an awful performance and it was only his fault. And there was nothing he could do about it anymore. Or was there?

“Do you have his phone number?”

Melody blinked. “Oh. I'm not sure, I'm sorry. He called me last week to say his thanks, but I have to dig through my received calls. I can try, but it will take a bit.”

“No, it's fine.” Leorio's cell phone number was among the application data, safely stored away in the studio's office computer. He could call Bisky and ask her to look it up, but it was Sunday, and who knew if she was home. She certainly didn't peg him as the type to spend her free time at home knitting or reading. Funny, he had no idea what she liked to do for fun. He knew her for two years now and had never thought to ask.

“He might not answer his phone if he is already on the way to the audition.” He needed a more direct approach to get the information he needed. He searched his own phone for a long-forgotten number and dialed, hoping that the call would go through. He counted on the fact that she could not afford to change her number too often, because she risked losing some of her contacts if she did. If that proved a dead end-

The dial tone started, before Kurapika could stoop so low to consider turning to Hisoka, or rather Hisoka's significant... someone.

The person that picked up was not the one Kurapika had hoped for, but a familiar one anyway.

“Do you know how early it is, asshole?,” she snapped at him, just her usual _delightfully_ grumpy self.

He was surprised to find how much it stung; not her words, but the nostalgia they evoked. He could picture her so clearly, the tousled pink locks that looked like she had fallen right out of bed, a face that was ready to break into a sneer at any given time and eyes that took in the world cold and unimpressed.

“Machi.” Her name fell awkward on his tongue. “I need to talk to your girlfriend. It's urgent.”

“She's not my girlfriend anymore.”

“I-”

“She's my fiancée now.”

“I didn't need to know this,” he said and regretted it the instant he finished the sentence. Machi had been the closest thing to a friend in the Phantom Ballet Company, and he had no bad blood with her – except for that bitter part of him that could not forgive her for moving on with her life so effortlessly, when he had lost all his prospects.

But she didn't sound too offended at his outburst and saved him the trouble of apologizing. “Sheesh, aren't we feeling sunny today. Fine, I'll get her for you, but only if you don't upset her.”

“I cannot make that promise.”

“That was no suggestion; if you stress her out I will find you and sew your mouth shut, understood? Ah, there she is-”

And just like that, before he had any time to mentally prepare, he was eighteen years old again, running scared with blood on his feet, picking fights he could not win. All it took was a single “hello” from her.

Kurapika fell dead quiet. There were no overly polite words he could offer her as a greeting. There was no way he could make them sound convincing when all that his mind offered him were accusations.

“Hello?”, she tried again, slightly annoyed.

“I have a favor to ask of you,” he said.

“Kurapika?” Pakunoda chuckled. “Now, that's a surprise. You must be in quite a pinch if you turn to me.”

“I'm not looking for a _job_ ,” he hissed.

“What a shame,” she said. Kurapika could not tell if she was serious or mocking him. “Who or what do I owe this call then?”

“Can you find out for me which ballet companies are holding auditions today? I am looking for those who accept adults in particular, and those who require _pas de deux_ as part of the audition.”

“I can, just give me ten minutes. That is all? I had expected you to demand a bigger favor, to be honest.”

“Some of us learn to take smaller steps,” Kurapika replied vaguely. “I would also appreciate it if you didn't tell Chrollo about this.”

“Fine. I'll call you back as soon as I have the information.”

She hung up.

Kurapika breathed a bit lighter after that.

“What do you want to do?”, Melody asked him. Her smile told Kurapika that she already had a strong hunch. He could not disappoint her, could he?

“Fixing the mistake I made.”


End file.
